Angel Tales Ransandstone peak trail map


There was no telling who might be listening. His whole being was quivering. John Dog’s father had been an oil-rig slave, and his brother had been a big, strapping buck of a Marine Corps slave. “What have we found?” he whispered rhetorically. Very strange. The way she said it made the idea feel tailor-fit.“Grad school,” he fleshed it out. Boy, oh boy.”The two hunkered down with the parka between them. They all gone up to your lake.
Not and tell others about it.

A year and a half earlier he’d flashed Tinkerbell, the first known unroped solo of a 5.11 climb in history. “I’ve become a master of finding the path of least resistance—in the cracks, between the Valley walls, halfway between the ground and the sky.” He broke off, mildly embarrassed. There’d been only one monumental woman in his life, a nurse he’d met in the Stockton Hospital emergency room. Stud, if you will. He descended to the corner of the Visor’s ceiling and tried, insanely, to locate a foothold underneath. Bean. At the north end of the ridge a gentle decline swept out through a miniature forest of stunted pines and introduced Ophidian Lake.

Like Maurice Herzog, the great French alpinist, must have felt as he watched the doctor snip off frostbitten joints in the jungles below Annapurna. “Kresinski’s plan, a cardboard camp to throw off the enemy. John Dog could only surmise that the authorities had cut the very top off in order to look down inside the submerged plane. For whatever reason, they had split the Valley into two territories, with the river as a border.

Down on the lake, Kresinski lifted the chain saw with one hand and inserted its spinning blade into the ice. Grow up, she was begging.Before the hour was out she was very drunk and very certain that she was talking to her lover alone. Sort of like the Valley itself, he thought. Part of his certainty that the spirit was alive and well came from his Indian ghosts. Sex discrimination was a brand-new term in the Park Service in 1973, a buzzword associated with hairy armpits, equal opportunity, and forests of clenched female fists. “Hey!” he yelled. But she’d dumped him long since, unwilling to play widow to his matador in the mountains. And the enslavement had never stopped. And for the others, sleep was sleep. Dry land, that’s what I’m looking for. Her speed picked up on the crusted snow. “For each man sees himself in the Grand Canyon.” — poet Carl Sandburg. But that still didn’t take the sting out. He slowed to a halt, pausing for Arthur to catch up. Or hoping for Harvard when Berkeley had proved too much after three short semesters.The moon floated perilously close to the billowing cloudbank, and frost drifted from his nostrils.“John?” Tinkerbell’s voice floated down and clutched him in midsentiment. The money he tucked inside his backpack.No more than five minutes had passed since the two had met in the grove. Drunk and very wealthy. If only Father Michael could see him now.

Word was that Tinkerbell had the hottest streak going in the Valley, at least this past climbing season. You could see the wild god in his eyes. Another commonly held opinion was that an airplane filled with dope would not be going anywhere until spring thaw, at which time two hippies on a leash could locate it with minimal effort. The Apache versus the King: august figures. His blush was engaging. It was John Dog alone, then, who saw a cinnamon-colored bear and her chubby yearling come ambling out from the trees.

“Run, go on. There was no climbing hardware anywhere. Best to keep it finite and simple, he thought. though, because here’s his buddy all ready to welcome him up to heaven. I could just see him take a dive right on me, right?”Across the table Tinkerbell held his saliva, afraid to swallow, far too aware he was blushing under his windburn.

He watched the pen poise before descending to scratch out a word, add a passage.Without glancing up from the page, John Dog picked a french fry from his plate and thoughtfully chewed at it, his eyes dodging through a fascinating footnote he’d unearthed concerning the original natives of Yosemite. “You’re all tool, Matthew,” she chided him and kissed him back.“Matt,” Liz crooned in her Lauren Bacall basso.
Water was not so foremost in John Dog’s mind, however, that he couldn’t appreciate Tinkerbell’s confrontation with the Visor.

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